


Falling

by anonymousdragon



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, falling, ragnarok spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousdragon/pseuds/anonymousdragon
Summary: Some thoughts on Loki's opinions of repeated falls from great heights





	Falling

The ground opened up beneath his feet and with a shake of his head at Thor he fell. The teleportation spell was not one he was familiar with. The blaze of light around his feet, hollowing out reality, was of unknown origin, no spellcaster he knew made portals like these.

This was some sudden attack, some surprise sorcery that he had no readied defenses for. It could not be the Void, could not be the perpetual darkness. He did not want to fall forever again. Fall so long he would forget who he was. 

Colors spun before his eyes, impossible to make out any sort of structure, any sort of reality. He grasped for the strands of spellwork, for tangles to pull through and unravel. But his breath came harsh in his ears. The Void hungered for what was its. He tugged at a line of magic, the air kaleidoscoping around him.

It wore against his hands and snapped loose.

The magician was keeping a close eye on their shellwork though, for the half looped teleportation came back with a vengeance.

The cylinder around him tightened. The Void—open and vast and endless as it was—had been almost claustrophobic in its emptiness, and now, trapped in a swirling mess of colors and confusion. He screamed. If asked ever, he would deny this—but at least that was proof that the Void was not this. This carried sound, carried color and confusion in ways the Void never would have.

He did not think the magician would leave him here endlessly, some passing remark Thor had made once about humanity and their opinions on cruel and unusual. Though he had not tracked this spell caster down. He did not know for sure that the spell derived from a human and not one of his enemies. The Enchantress perhaps? Since _He_ did not use magic, and _she_ would just send a lieutenant and he didn’t leave _them_ on such ill terms, now had he?

No. Focus. He was the best sorcerer in the Nine Realms and beyond. He could ready a trap for whoever, whatever, had caught him unawares. Careful spellwork, something he had not tried in many a year without his laboratory and potions near. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He reached deep for his magic, calling it up, only for the kaleidoscope prison to shake and the overwhelming sensation of falling drove any thought of magic from his mind.

He thought he fell faster now, his breath catching in his throat, his organs felt smeared against his back. This was not fair. He had fallen endlessly before. Norns, let this end. Prayers did not become him, but they came unasked for.

It felt warm. His suit tight at the collar, his tongue sticking against the roof of his mouth. Then, there, that infuriating glowing ring. His knives were in his hands in an instant.

The floor was stone. Hard marble breaking his fall. To his left, Thor, beyond him, some dull mortal. “I was falling for _thirty_ minutes” he snarled, forcing himself to show no qualms coming to his feet. Move to the attack sooner, spit insults with the best of them. He could cut his foes down to side with knife or tongues. A lunge forward for this vile mortal charlatan, and then stumbling forward, into a grassy field with Thor behind him again.

 

***

 

Odin was dead; dissipated into some golden dust. Mjolnir was destroyed; shattered like broken glass. And now, some unstoppable, unspoken of daughter of Odin was charging toward them. He had priorities and life was one of them.

The Bifrost roared around them. He had thought—foolishly!— that Skurge could target it sufficiently so no unwanted passengers could tag along, but there she was. Swimming up the Bifrost like a spawning trout. Somehow, he was not certain quite in what manner, Thor had surged ahead. And he was there, some futile buffer between Odin’s blood children.

He threw a knife. If he could just distract long enough to cast a spell—something, anything—that could slow her even a bit. She let it glance off her like a raindrop and then he was gone. Pushed through the bifrost as though it were a cloud and —the Void.

Darkness, deeper, stronger, darker, harder, colder, than any found on any realm. He had not left, had he? The past however long—with Thanos, and the Chitauri, Malekith and the Dark Elves—that was all a dream, some fever brought on by the fall.

Norns just let him die. Sensation fell away quicker now than it had before. He could not hear. Could not see. He knew his eyes were open, the slight burn of the Void’s chill, and the feel of frozen eyelashes against eyelids. But there was nothing he could see, nothing that could be felt.

He screamed, and no sound could be heard. _Calm yourself Loki_ , it was his mother’s voice. If it was a dream, then Frigga lived! Odin lived! Hela was nothing more than a hallucination. With the omnipresent darkness, his mind concocted tricks, desperate for some explanation of Odin’s rage. But he knew, in his heart of hearts that this was not the same, this was an _again_ , not a continuation. His throat did not yet feel scraped raw from screaming, his clothes had not yet frozen and splintered off in fraying clouds.

The Void did not like giving up its prey though. He had escaped once, but twice would be unprecedented. The Void clung to him; he could not feel his skin, but felt the Void.

He craned his head over his shoulder, looking back, hoping for a glimpse of the Bifrost. If they had both made it back to Asgard, would Thor have defeated her? He would have all of Asgard on his side in a single, effortless moment. As powerful as she was, Hela was alone, surely all of Asgard could defeat her. Loki knew, as only one who had spent long hours with the skalds and lost in the libraries, how easily one powerful figure could bring down armies. And she had destroyed Mjolnir as though squishing an ant.

There was a patch in the Void, some lighter circle and he reached for it. He twisted his body, angling for the weakness. The Void tugged at him. Desperation gave him drive and he grabbed the edge of the portal, for what else could it be.

He hoped it went someplace better than the last Void voyage he had been on, but he would rather face Thanos again than the interminable Void.

He fell, again; but the skies around him held color, bright, vivid color—not Thanos’ kingdom, and not the Void—and this, this could be handled, surely?


End file.
